“Excuse me,” I said, panicking, “I’ll buy you anything else you want if you let me have that cake.”

He looked at me with pity. My husband and baby inched away, embarrassed.

“You really want this cake,” the man said, agreeing to give it to me in exchange for a brownie and two coconut bars. It seemed fair.

I took a big bite. It was nearly what my friend described, though I’d say it was more moist and cakey than gooey. Nonetheless I was hooked, and did not want to wait for next week to get more. I’d just have to make it myself.

Getting the recipe was easy. I asked Ms. Killeen and she e-mailed it, scaling down the proportions to what would fit into a 9- by 13-inch baking pan.

“New Yorkers like things less sweet than in the Midwest,” she told me.

I made the dough and waited impatiently for it to rise. When the cake emerged from the oven, the top was puffed and golden.

A few minutes later, it had darkened into a buttery, crackling crust. The cake itself resembled the center of a pecan pie; it was very sweet, but not tooth-achingly so, and it went down all too easily with a cold glass of milk.

The recipe was simple enough that the next time I get a craving for it, I can make it myself — without having to play let’s make a deal.

A version of this article appears in print on November 4, 2009, on Page D2 of the New York edition with the headline: Having My Cake and Eating It Too. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe